


The Game Has Changed

by Mikkal



Series: [Exit Flash] [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Disability, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Multi, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkal/pseuds/Mikkal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>He curls a hand under his knee and swings out the leg over the edge, his foot flopping. Barry ignores it—because if he doesn’t he just might break down, <i>again</i>—and grabs at his pants on the other leg to swing that one over too until both legs are dangling off the edge of the bed. He looks down at his feet, willing them to flex and point like his dance instructor use to say he had the perfect arches for.</p>
  <p>They don’t move.</p>
  <p> <i>They don’t fucking move.</i><br/></p>
</blockquote><i>Another</i> Westhallen follow up of the ending of <i>Enter Zoom.</i> Can be considered a sort-of follow up to <i>Wordless</i>
            </blockquote>





	The Game Has Changed

**Author's Note:**

> So here's another oneshot. Fortunately, this one wasn't written at four o'clock in the morning. This one has a lot more angst.

 

He glares at his legs, his eyes burning with tears, but he doesn’t blink. _Move damn it, just fucking_ move. What is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to tell Singh he loss the use of his legs without mentioning the speed demon from another Earth? How is he going to tell Laurel and Dig and Thea and Oliver and Felicity that he, that he— _What is he suppose to do now?_

Barry presses his fingers against his thigh, digging his nails through the loose sweatpants Cisco helped him put on earlier— _helped him put on_. He can’t feel it; he can’t feel a damn thing. God—he wipes angrily at the tears on his face. If he can’t move his legs, if he can’t walk, how can he protect this city and her people? He already failed them with the Reverse Flash and the Singularity, but this, this is so much _worse._

He curls a hand under his knee and swings out the leg over the edge, his foot flopping. Barry ignores it—because if he doesn’t he just might break down, _again_ —and grabs at his pants on the other leg to swing that one over too until both legs are dangling off the edge of the bed. He looks down at his feet, willing them to flex and point like his dance instructor use to say he had the perfect arches for.

            They don’t move.

            _They don’t fucking move._

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_ That last one is screamed, ripping from his throat, guttural in a way that he’s never screamed before. He slams a fist on the metal railing around his bed and _throws_ a pillow across the room, for the lack of anything more satisfying.

            Caitlin and Cisco are outside the Cortex, probably talking to Joe about his prospects. But what prospects are there, hm? He’s a superhero with super speed who _can’t walk._ He already moved out of Joe’s house _again_ after the Singularity, he actually spent more time sleeping on this very bed than his own apartment, but now his apartment is inaccessible to him, and he _really_ doesn’t want to spend more time here with the breach in the basement.

            The breach that Zoom might have come out of.

            The breach that he still can come out of.

            His heart skips a beat and he gasps, doubling over at the sudden tightness in his chest. No, no, nonono, please no—the vice around his chest just _squeezes_ and he gasps for breath, whimpering against the onslaught of absolute fucking _terror_. He can feel the hand around his throat, the sharp pain in his stomach, the crackling numbness of his spine the instant Zoom snapped it. The sting of blue lightning across his face as he was paraded around like some proud dog’s chew toy.

            Barry covers his mouth as his stomach rolls, willing the bile to stay down. His eyes squeeze shut, dripping tears. If he was a burden to his friends and family before, God, what is he now?—what _use_ is he now?

            His arms are trembling by the time he gets his attack under control. His chest aches, his throat hurts, his face is all puffy and red from so much crying—he just wants to stop crying, damn it. He wipes at his face, sniffling, making a congested noise of disgust. _Ugh._

Maybe he just needs to wait a little longer, then he can heal. But—he grabs his leg again under the knee and makes his lower leg swing freely—Caitlin hadn’t told him to stay still to keep his spine in one position to heal, that’s usually not a good indicator if his ‘personal physician’ doesn’t tell him to not move.  

            Barry shuffles closer to the edge of the bed until his toes are brushing the ground—the tile should be cold, the AC is on and everything, and his socks are pretty thin, but he doesn’t feel anything. It’s a dumb idea, but, then again, most, if not all, of his ideas are dumb, but he has to try, right? That’s how his life is? It’s an impossible thing—

            — _but he has to try._

            He carefully manipulates his legs with his hands so his feet are flat on the ground, he wants to say firmly, but then decides not, cos how can he tell if it’s firm? He grips the edge of the bed tight and _heaves_ himself up, holding his weight with his trembling arms. God, he’s still so _weak_.

            He puts a little weight on his legs and sobs tightly when there’s _nothing._ It’s not going to work, it’s _not._ But he lets go of the bed anyway, standing for a brief second, before he’s free-falling, his useless legs crumbling under him. He smacks his arm on the metal railing as he goes down, the resonating _thud!_ just making it so much worse. He slams into the ground, bouncing like the rag-doll he’s been turned into, and he just _stays there._

            Stays there, in a crumpled heap, crying at earnest now, his chest rattling with the force of his sobs. _Fucking fuck._

“Barry?”

            He throws an arm over his eyes, his free hand coming up to muffle the pathetic sounds he’s making. No, please, no, he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, let alone _Iris_. And where there’s Iris in a situation like this, Eddie isn’t so far behind. He doesn’t want to face either of them, they _just_ gotten back into a nice swing of things, but now, now—.

            “Barry!” He can feel the heat of her hovering over him, the feather light touches of her hands ghosting over his body to look for any new injuries. He doesn’t acknowledge her and the guilt that immediately pops up makes him sob a little harder. “Eddie, come help me.” Her hand is at his elbow, gentle. “Let’s get you up off this floor, okay?”

            He shakes his head, choking a little when his breaths don’t get through his hand so he parts his fingers a bit.

            “Barr’.” And that’s Eddie, sounding close, almost too close, they’re both _too close to him and he can’t run away._ “Come on, it can’t be comfortable down here.”

            He swallows thickly around the lump in his throat and moves the hand over his mouth to his neck where bruises once circled like a grotesque necklace. He brushes his thumb over his collar bone before moving to fist of a clump of his sweatpants. “P-Please,” he mumbles. “Leave me a-alone.”

            _He really doesn’t want to be alone right now._

But he _should_. He should be alone, because that’s how it’s going to be for who knows how long—the rest of his life? He’s no use to anyone any more with not being able to run, what’s the point of keeping him around?

            “No,” Iris says firmly, her grip on his elbow tightening. “We’re not leaving you. Barry, how could you think that?” —she sounds so _hurt_ and he did that to her. He hurt her with his low opinion of her and Eddie, _fuck_.

            “Iris,” Eddie says quietly. Barry doesn’t see it, but he imagines Eddie shaking his head subtly because Iris sucks in a sharp breath and lets out a soft ‘ _I’m sorry, Barry.’_ “Barry, can you at least move your arm and look at us? Tell us what happened?”

            Barry squeezes his hand into a fist, his nails biting into his skin, then obliges his boyfriend, moving his arm and blinking up at them, his vision blurry for a few seconds. When it clears he’s got Iris’ wobbly smile looking over him and Eddie’s bright blue eyes crinkled in concern. Fresh tears drip down his temples, pooling in his ears and getting his hair wet, but he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to face the fact that he’ll need Iris’ and Eddie’s help to get back to bed. Eventually he’ll learn to do it himself, but he doesn’t want to think about being paralyzed for _that_ long.

            Eddie’s smile gets a little wider, just a tiny bit. “Hi there.”

            “What happened?” Iris asks softly, her hand going to his hair and scritching his scalp. He leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering close. The cold of the tile is seeping into his back now, but he does his best to ignore it. “Did you try to stand up?”

            He nods without opening his eyes. If he ignores how uncomfortable the floor is right now and the whole situation he’s almost _content_. “Y-Yeah,” he croaks out. “It…It didn’t _w-work_.”

            His head and shoulders are lifted up and he finds himself nestled on something warm. He turns his head and presses his nose against Eddie’s knee, fighting the tears. He’s so sick of crying.

            “Give it a little longer,” Eddie says soothingly, trailing his fingers down Barry’s face. “It was pretty bad this time around. Just a _little_ longer, okay?”

            “I don’t know what I’m suppose to do,” he whispers.

            Iris tugs on his hair a little to get his attention and he meets her gaze. Her expression is determined, solid. “Hold on,” she says. “Just hold on and keep moving forward. We’ll go through this together.”

            Barry takes a deep, shaky breath, and nods, jerky and sharp. “I think I’d like to get up now,” he mumbles. “…Help?”

            “Always.”


End file.
